Decidedly this was imbecile. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Wood,—"he'll never mend. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave.
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